


this skin is your skin, these hands your hands

by Duckyboos



Series: i only come when you scream [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Anal Sex, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), BAMF Dean Winchester, Barebacking, Blood and Gore, Bottom Dean Winchester, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Mild Gore, Murder Husbands, Necrophilia, Phone Sex, Road Trips, Romance, Serial Killer Castiel (Supernatural), Serial Killer Dean Winchester, Serial Killers, Sex, Snark, Top Castiel (Supernatural), Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Traditional Love Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:20:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23792239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckyboos/pseuds/Duckyboos
Summary: Dean just wants Cas to stay.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: i only come when you scream [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/931293
Comments: 79
Kudos: 351





	this skin is your skin, these hands your hands

**Author's Note:**

> Dean and Cas’ love story.  
> Takes place over the course of around twelve months and after _‘monsters are always hungry, darling’._  
>  There are mentions of necrophilia and gore (nothing explicit or gruesome), so please be warned.

Someone somewhere is missing a pretty blond girl with a Celtic-style tattoo around her dainty left ankle. Girl like that wants to be safely independent; rebellious of daddy’s strict rules - no body modifications, no boyfriends - but still living at home, quietly doing her chores and keeping the only signs of her resistance easily hidden.

Dean would bet the hundred bucks he made hustling pool last night that she’s got a secret boyfriend somewhere with a pair of fluffy handcuffs covered in her DNA.

Dean gets it. Safe rebellion can be fun. Hell, he’s  _ been there done that _ himself. He’d always been his daddy’s good little soldier - taking care of Sammy, doing as he was told - but that didn’t stop him from strangling his first victim at fourteen years old. 

John almost certainly wouldn’t have liked that. Didn’t enjoy it much when a seventeen-year-old Dean tried out his carving skills on daddy’s ribs.

He’s gotten much better since then. The trick is to use a fretsaw.

According to the five o’clock news, the girl’s name is Laura or Lauren or something like that. Dean’s not really interested beyond the particulars of her death. Something that Castiel is relaying to him over the phone whilst Dean fucks his own fist, tuning out the County Sheriff assuring the public that they’re one step closer to finding Laura-Lauren alive and well. 

Not if Castiel’s description of her lower intestine is as accurate as Dean suspects it is. 

“--She told me I could have whatever I wanted--” Cas’ voice is absinthe with Faust, all jagged dark pleasure, and Dean’s close,  _ so close _ , cock blood-rich and painfully hard, precome welling at the slit, “--don’t think she realized that the only thing I wanted was to watch her die--” And that’s it, Dean’s coming hard, back arched on the polyester bedspread, a wordless noise torn helplessly from the depths of his soul as he paints his chest, stomach, and fist with white heat. 

“ _ Fuck, _ ” Dean pants, extremities tingling. He’d let the phone slip between the pillows during that mindblowing orgasm, and he scrambles to retrieve it, bringing it back up to his ear just as Castiel is making that hot little sound he does right before he shoots his liquified spine out of his dick.

The line crackles and then Castiel’s back in Dean’s ear, sounding ridiculously smug for someone who just came, “Your turn.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

  
  


***

  
  


So, here’s the thing. Everybody leaves. For some, it's of their own volition (see: Castiel, Sam), for others, not so much (see: Laura-Lauren, John).

Since their life-affirming fuck two months ago, Cas has left Dean a grand total of four times. It makes sense in theory; they can’t stay together, two serial killers fighting, fucking, and murdering will undoubtedly destroy each other and everything around them - which doesn’t sound like anything close to the worst possible outcome to Dean - but in practice, it’s Cas,  _ fucking Cas, _ who is set in his stupid fucking ways, and the relationship is still tenuous, so Dean’s not about to drag his own insecurities into the light for Cas to take apart. 

Instead, he sulks. Plots a little. Sulks some more. Suggests dating through the touristification of their mutual love and Cas laughs, but agrees. 

  
  


***

  
  


They meet up in Milwaukee, spend an evening on the Dahmer  _ Cream City Cannibal  _ Tour. The whole way 'round Cas is critiquing methodology like he’s writing a goddamn thesis and Dean’s quietly amused.

There’s a bachelorette party on the tour with them; a bunch of thirty-something women all giggling and cooing over Dahmer. “There’s something kinda perverse about this, Cas,” Dean murmurs, nose brushing against Cas’ jaw as they stop outside Club 219 and the tour guides try to conjure Dahmer’s ghost.

“That’s  _ exactly _ why I like it,” Cas grins, bright-eyed and twice as handsome as Bundy could’ve ever hoped to be.

Dahmer might have been bugfuck nuts - not like Dean’s in any position to judge - but Dean definitely understands his compulsion to never let anyone leave.

  
  


***

Later that night, in some no-name motel, riding Cas’ dick, breath fucked out of his lungs with each vicious thrust of Cas’ hips, perhaps inspired by the tour, perhaps the idea of discovering Cas’ hard limits, Dean asks, “You ever wanted to skullfuck somebody?” 

  
  


***

Next time they see each other, it’s in Cleveland Ohio, and Dean still has the blood of an 18 year old oxidizing into a thin line of rust underneath his fingernails. They take the  _ Torso Murderer  _ tour, Cas muttering under his breath about the ineptitude of Ness.

Anybody else talking shit about  _ Mr. Untouchable _ himself would get a knife to the kidney, but it’s Cas. Cas always gets a pass.

“Y’know,” Dean interjects in the lull between Cas’ rants, aiming for casual, hitting somewhere between bunny-boiler (which, just no, that’s fucked up) and high-schooler with their first crush (not a million miles away from the truth), “One of the reasons the Torso Murderer escaped capture is now widely thought to be because there were two of them.”

There’s a lot more than a hint crawling beneath the words.

Cas assays him with calculating eyes, “That so?”

  
  


***

According to the internet, the only true way to skullfuck somebody is in the eye socket (‘cause any other orifice is for  _ amateurs _ ). Dean might be a lot of things, but a necrophile ain’t one of them - seriously, heebie-fucking-jeebies, man - so he files that one away in a mental cabinet marked  _ ‘Not even fucking once’ _ .

  
  


***

Dean visits Sam in California. They don’t actually speak - or interact at all - but Dean gets to watch his little brother from afar. Nerd seems to be enjoying his normal life and although a selfish part of Dean wishes things were different, he’s happy for Sam. He’s got what he wanted and so has Dean. 

Well. Sort of. If Cas would stop fucking  _ disappearing on him _ like a dudebro with commitment issues.

The next afternoon, Cas rolls up outside Dean’s motel room in a stolen Ford Mustang convertible. As Dean slides in next to him, Cas tells him, “We are categorically  _ not _ going on the  _ Helter Skelter _ tour.”

Dean laughs, asks, “Not a fan of Manson?”

“Fucker’s too good to get his hands dirty,” His eyes drop to Dean’s hands, and Dean feels the heat creeping up the back of his neck, “As far as I’m concerned, he’s not worthy of the serial killer mantle.”

  
  


***

  
  


For his turn, Dean shows Cas just how much he likes to get his hands dirty when he calls him during his murder of a middle-aged father of three. Nothing personal against the guy, just a case of wrong place wrong time. 

Castiel comes to the sound of Dean’s knife across the guy’s throat, the gurgle of him choking on his own blood. 

For a long few minutes, there’s nothing but the harsh pants of Cas coming down from what sounded like a  _ killer _ orgasm. 

Dean’s inordinately pleased with himself when he says, “Your turn, Cas.”

  
  


***

“It’s awkward,” Cas says, voice rumbling over the line, “It feels like a violation.”

Dean’s trying  _ really _ hard not to crack up. His dick went soft about five minutes into this and since then he’s just been enjoying Cas’ running commentary, “So sticking your cock in somebody’s eye socket is a violation, but playing soccer with their innards is A-okay? Got it.”

Experiencing things vicariously isn’t usually Dean’s bag, but again -  _ necrophilia _ \- and Cas is a kinky son of a bitch. 

“It’s  _ unsanitary _ ,” Cas grumbles, and it’s then -  _ right fucking then  _ \- that Dean realizes he loves him, for  _ real _ . Not infatuation or lust, but true earth-moving-unicorns-shooting-rainbows-outta-their-asses-love. 

He doesn’t tell Cas because it’s not like that, but it feels good knowing he’s not so compromised that he can’t love somebody other than Sammy.

  
  


***

There’s a hokey true crime expedition in the French Quarter of New Orleans. It’s kinda jarring, walking past the vampire tours and colored Mardi Gras beads. 

They duck out halfway through, right as the operator is positing Mafia involvement in the Axeman’s crimes, disappearing down a side street, and Dean drops to his knees on the cobbles for Cas, more than willing to go in for some amateur skullfucking in the Big Easy.

  
  


***

  
  


In Boston, they take the _ Beacon Hill Crime  _ tour, and Dean gets a little peek into Cas’ MO as the tour guide psychoanalyzes the shit out of the Boston Strangler. 

Dean wonders if in twenty years there’ll be tours dedicated to them.

  
  


***

The  _ Zodiac _ tour in San Francisco turns out to be as long-winded and drawn out as the nation's obsession with the elusive fucker. Cas has his theories which he shares with a fucked-out Dean in his hotel room later that night.

“Lawrence Kane?” Dean flops over onto his side, slides a knee between Cas’, “Too fuckin’ obvious, man.”

“That’s why it’s perfect,” Cas says like it makes total fucking sense. 

During the night if Dean pulls Cas’ arms tighter around him and considers begging him not to leave (or briefly contemplates pouring hydrochloric acid into Cas’ brain a la Dahmer), then that’s nobody's business but his own.

  
  


***

Cas is gone the next morning and Dean’s left with nothing other than the scent of his skin on the cheap hotel linens. 

Shoulda bought that hydrochloric acid.

***

“You know,” Cas says slyly in Chicago as the projector whirs through period pictures of the Chicago 1893 World’s Fair, “Holmes was paid for his confession.”

“Yeah? Money so tight that you’re thinking of raking in some dough by confessing?”

_ Stay. We can save money by traveling together. _

Cas makes a contemplative noise in the back of his throat, bumps his shoulder against Dean’s, “Imagine the headlines: ‘ _ Suffolk County Reaper confesses to forty-three brutal murders: America’s greatest serial killer _ ’--”

“--America’s greatest serial killer my  _ ass _ . You’re not interesting enough to outstrip Bundy or Gacy, nor do you have the numbers of Ridgeway or Little. Plus, they always focus on the sick stuff, so that little necrophilia-skullfuck stunt in Montana will be all you’re remembered for, you fuckin’ pervert.”

Cas’ laugh is throaty and dark, “I bet it would sell the shit outta the papers though. I could be single-handedly responsible for bringing the tabloid back from the brink of extinction,” He hums to himself, “I’ve always wanted to be on the cover of  _ Weekly World News _ , next to a story about a half-human, half-alligator found in a Floridian swamp.”

Dean looks at Cas then. His face is cut in half by the lights flickering over his skin, blue eyes almost translucent. He’s so devastatingly beautiful that Dean’s abruptly struck with the urge to tell him how he feels and just let Cas figure it the fuck out from there. 

Back at that hole-in-the-wall bar, Cas had been wild, unrestrained in his want of Dean. Ever since then, he’s buttoned himself back up, kept his distance metaphorically and physically. And yeah, sure, it’s dangerous, yadda yadda what-the-hell-ever, and Dean might be overly-in-fucking-vested in the infuriating bastard, but  _ fuck _ . The lifespan of a serial killer ain’t exactly up there with the national average, so maybe,  _ just maybe _ they should stop wasting time, but Dean’s not about to make the first move. Which is at least half of the problem, really. 

Dean’s voice is rougher when he says, “Yeah, you’d still get overshadowed though. At most, you’d be the story near the middle. Maybe you should fuck the alligator-human hybrid, have weird alligator-serial killer babies. Now  _ that  _ would be newsworthy.” And because he’s feeling pissy, after a couple of arrhythmic heartbeats, he adds, “You’re a dick, Cas. You know that, right? We shouldn’t even be  _ joking _ about this shit; confessions and all that. Makes me twitchy, man. Like you’ve been thinking about turning yourself in or something.”

He turns back to the presentation, tries to focus on the sepia photos of Holmes’ murder castle.

“Would you miss me?”

_ Yes _ , he wants to say, but instead, he plumps for, “I’d _definitely_ miss your cock.”

  
  


***

Dean shows him just how much later that night and into the next morning, not satisfied until they’ve both come several times, and Cas sleeps in long past the time when he usually leaves.

  
  


***

  
  


Dean’s in Utah, working on victim number twenty-three, when Cas calls him, “Turn the television on.”

Dean switches the cell to his other hand, sandwiching it between his ear and shoulder, “Well, hello to you too, Cas.”

“ _ Turn the television on _ .”

“Alright,” Dean wipes his knife off on his jeans, points it at the shivering, bound-and-gagged woman on the dirty floor of the motel bathroom, mouths ‘ _ be fucking quiet’ _ . He closes the door, pads across the main room, “Channel?”

Cas tells him and Dean switches over. It’s a news station and the pair of bland all-American anchors are talking about something Dean can’t quite hear.

Volume up, the blond female anchor is saying, “--leaving a community and his family devastated. We’re going now to our correspondent outside the scene in Tulsa. Martin, what can you tell us about this horrific crime--

“Cas, why am I watching this?” He eyes the bathroom door. Number twenty-three has been here for a couple of days, weak and exhausted by now, but Dean’s not taking any chances.

“Just watch.”

“-- Well, Cynthia. I’m here in Keystone State Park, Tulsa, where the body of federal agent Victor Henriksen was found earlier this morning. Nobody’s been allowed inside the park since the discovery and the sight is reported to be an extremely gruesome one--”

“So you killed an FBI agent? You want a medal?”

“ _ Just fucking watch _ .”

“--Early reports from the local police suggest that the body is missing vital organs, indicating that this may be the work of a serial murderer. Police are combing the crime scene, hoping to find some cl--”

“He was hunting you,” Cas says, voice a low whiskey-soaked growl in Dean’s ear, “He was in a diner outside of Stillwater with his files all spread all over the table. He didn’t have shit, but I didn’t want him to get the chance. It was stupid and impulsive, but I had to.”

Over the past year, Dean’s gotten pretty good at reading between the lines. Even if he hasn’t entirely realized it until now.

“...You killed him for me, Cas?”

“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it, yeah.”

“And what’s the other way?”

There’s nothing but a sort of stilted static for a long moment, “I love you.”

As far as declarations of love go, it’s right up there with Westley’s  _ ‘As You Wish’ _ confession in Princess Bride. 

Dean sucks in a trembling breath.  _ Fuck.  _

There are a million things he wants to say. Not least of them is  _ I love you too, you stupid fucker, _ but he can’t quite coax anything out of his suddenly useless voicebox. 

A beat passes, two.

Dean swallows hard around nothing, tries to get his heart under control where it’s throwing itself against the cage of his ribs, says, “You old romantic, you.”

“What can I say, I’m all about the fairytale, baby.”

Dean chokes on a laugh, “Yeah, ‘cause nothing says eternal love like capital murder.” 

“For people like us, yeah.”

_ People like  _ **_us._ **

_ Us. _

Dean’s never been part of an  _ ‘us’ _ before. Not like this. 

Dean’s not good at this shit, so he clears his throat, and voice thick, says, “You coming over then? I’ve got this chick tied up in the bathroom, you wanna kill her together? Y’know, be in the same room for once.”

_ Together. _

Thankfully, Cas isn’t any better, “Yeah. Yeah, okay. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

_ Us. Together.  _

  
  


*** 

The mystery of the missing organs is solved the next day when Dean receives his first heart from Cas, fed-exed from several states over. 

According to Cas, the others got mailed to the FBI offices in Oklahoma City and DC, a warning carved in blood and pain.

  
  


***

  
  


Cas himself turns up precisely an hour and forty-seven minutes after the heart, every strand of dark hair sticking up in a different direction and a wild look in his eyes that Dean doesn’t quite know how to read. But he will. He’ll learn.

“Huh,” Cas says plucking the heart out of the open box on the scarred table, examines the organ, “It traveled surprisingly well.”

Dean just looks at him. Reminiscent of the nervous tossing of the car keys in the woods in the middle of nowhere, if he didn’t know any better, Dean would assume Castiel is nervous.

Fortunately, he does know better now, so he blurts, “I love you too, you stupid fucker.”

“Yeah?” Cas asks, the heart of an FBI agent resting in his palm.

“Yeah,” Dean grins, “You’re a stupid fucker.”

  
  


***

  
  


They kill Dean’s twenty-third victim together. It’s the first time they’ve ever been in the same room when somebody dies and  _ fuck.  _

It’s at least a thousand times as addictive as Dean had been imagining, and he’d already been considering opioid-levels of dependency. 

He’s still riding the shaky rush of power coiled around his spine, tendrils of adrenaline snaking along his veins, as the two of them stand shoulder to shoulder in a motel bathroom in Layton, UT, blood slicking across the tiles, seeping between, soaking into the grouting. 

Yeah, this is dangerous as hell and Dean already wants his next fucking hit.

  
  


***

From this position, pinioned against the bathroom wall, legs around Cas’ waist, Dean can see the sweep of sooty eyelashes against the Slavic cut of cheekbone, can see the swell of plush lips, the angle of a strong jaw. Beyond the solid set of Cas’ shoulders, the girl’s glassy, dead eyes stare him down. 

“ _ Harder _ , Cas.”

Cas hauls Dean’s body up further, wedging his cock deeper in Dean’s ass, pubic bone digging right up against Dean’s perineum. Dean’s fist in Cas’ hair tightens and he moans, head cracking off the wall his spine is riding as Cas fucks up into him with jagged drives of his hips.

Blood seeps under the tread of Cas’ boot, a transfer pattern in the making, but Dean is too busy trying not to choke around Cas’ dick as he forces endless inches up inside Dean, closer than any other human has ever been, and Dean can’t control what comes out of his mouth when it drops open, the head Cas’ dick dragging over his prostate so filthy-perfect.

“Oh  _ fuck _ , Cas. Fuckfuckfuck-- Stay with me. You fucking have to--”

Cas grunts, muscles flexing and bunching as he nails Dean against the wall, slip-slide of skin, blood and sweat mixing and Dean’s gonna look like one of those kiddie finger paintings when they’re done, a macabre form of artistry created with the tang of salt and richness of iron. 

When Dean comes, it’s with Cas’ name on his lips and a no-name woman’s blood in the whorls of his DNA. When Cas comes, it’s with a split-second loss of control, blue eyes lost in Dean’s green. 

Dangerous might be an understatement. Lethal, fatal, deadly. _Devastating_.

“Cas,” Dean says, thick length of Cas’ dick still in his ass, body crushed to the wall to hold them both upright, heartbeats synchronized and tethered together forever, “Stay with me.”

“Fuck,” Cas huffs, face pressed against the sweat-slick curve of Dean’s collarbone, “I thought you’d never ask.”


End file.
